


That Green Goddess

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Casual Sex, Drug Use, Established Relationship, I'm going to hell for this for sure, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn and Harry smoke weed. Antics ensue. </p><p>And by "antics," I mean sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Green Goddess

**Author's Note:**

> In my head the time period for this is like, mid-to-late 2012 if that makes any difference to your reading/perception of certain characters.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is all 100% fictional and made up, i.e. not real. Also don't do drugs.

Harry Styles was very good at many, many things. Some of them were obvious: he was a great performer, effortlessly charming, masterful at smoothing over awkward situations.  Some of them were less well-known: he had above-average hand-eye coordination, a freakish memory for football statistics, the kindest heart imaginable. And some of them, the ones that Zayn appreciated most, were known to only an intimate few: Harry was great at dirty talk, gave excellent head, could make you come harder than you thought possible.

Of course, almost as long—this being key to Harry’s charm, Zayn suspected—was the list of things that he was exceptionally bad at. And one of those things, as it turned out, was smoking weed.

“You’ve never done it?” Zayn asked late one night as they drank in their hotel room, still wired on excess post-show adrenaline.

“Never,” Harry insisted, shaking his head a little more emphatically than usual to brush his shaggy curls out of his eyes.

“C’mon, don’t be coy,” said Zayn. “It’s just me.”

Harry reacted with a look of wide-eyed perplexity. “Why would I lie about that?”

Zayn sighed, rubbing his face. “Dunno, man, I’m fucking wasted. And tired.”

“You’ve had one beer,” Harry pointed out. “Lightweight.”

“One and a half, thanks very much,” Zayn replied. “Dickhead.”

Harry yawned and stretched his arms theatrically. “Right, well, I guess we’d better call it a night, then, if Princess Zayn is too tired…”

He moved to stand, but Zayn got up first—with remarkable quickness considering how foggy he was feeling—and straddled Harry in his armchair, placing a hand suggestively on his crotch. Harry grinned impishly, flashing those murderous dimples.

“Ah, not so tired anym—”

Zayn shut him up with a forceful kiss, which Harry returned hungrily after a moment, and everything else in the room just sort of fell away.

 

* * *

 

A mild headache woke Zayn up too early, but overall  he was none the worse for wear, and able to remember most of the previous evening. The sex had been fantastic, obviously; the spent condoms and hastily removed clothing items strewn across the patterned hotel room carpet served as superfluous confirmation of that. Zayn also recalled Harry mentioning his inexperience with a certain green goddess, and began to hatch a scheme immediately.

Scoring weed wasn’t the hard part; it never had been, even back in Bradford. The general philosophy—this had been true then and was equally true now, if not even more so—was that it was simply a matter of paying attention, getting the lay of the land, so to speak, knowing who pulled the strings and whose strings to pull. Once you figured that out, it was surprisingly easy to get what you wanted, whatever you wanted, in terms of drugs or sex or anything, really. It was just a matter of imagination. Imagination and, well, restraint.

Which had never been Zayn’s strong suit. When he wanted something he wanted all of it, all at once: no point in doing something halfway. That’s how it had been with music, and then with Harry. Certainly to the casual observer it might look like this stuff just fell into his lap, but just because he made it look effortless didn’t mean it actually was. Appearance and reality almost never coincided, that was another thing that was becoming more obvious daily. But the point was, if you wanted something, just go and fucking get it.

So there was a solid ounce of tantalizing green bud stashed away in Zayn’s luggage, simply waiting for the opportune moment.

Therein lay the rub, so to speak: the band’s schedule was so packed with shows and press and interviews and promo that thinking ahead any further than the next gig made Zayn’s head spin. He had a very strict and serious pot-smoking philosophy, and there just wasn’t enough time for a proper toke, especially one with your—well, he didn’t actually like to think too much about what Harry was to him, or he to Harry; “friend” obviously didn’t cover it, but “boyfriend” was all wrong too and “lover” was hilariously bad—fuck buddy? Friend with benefits? Extremely sexy bandmate who you also just happened to be fucking?

Anyway he wanted to do this right with Harry, to listen to a record and languidly rediscover each other’s bodies in an altered state of consciousness, and come down slowly without the deadline of a public appearance. It didn’t seem like too much to ask, really, but there was always something.  

So Zayn bided his time patiently. After all, he was still having sex with Harry whenever and wherever possible: a dressing-room blow job here, a mutual wank-off in the back of an SUV there, more serious stuff in hotel rooms and on tour buses. Although they took minimal care to avoid arousing suspicion—making sure to never show up someplace looking too obviously wrecked, for example—the truth was that Zayn didn’t really know or care whether anyone figured it out. All that mattered was that it was easy, and hot, and fucking _fun_.

 

* * *

 

At last, luck. Well, bad luck, technically: Niall got suddenly and violently ill mere hours before showtime and had to be rushed to the hospital with dehydration. Food poisoning was the primary suspect, to the complete surprise of absolutely no one.

The notion of performing a member down was inconceivable, so announcements and apologies were swiftly made, a make-up date promised but to be determined. Zayn spared a moment’s sympathetic thought for whatever members of the band’s ever-growing support staff would be responsible for coordinating that logistical nightmare.

The upside was that the rest of the band had an unprecedented free night, and Zayn was determined to make the most of it. His plan, however, was almost foiled by the unpredictable antics of one Louis Tomlinson.

“Coming,” Zayn called in response to the sharp, persistent knocking at the door of his and Harry’s hotel room.

“Ready?” Louis asked instantly when Zayn opened the door, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot, seeming wound even more tightly than usual. Liam stood by silently, looking like an extremely reluctant accomplice.

“Ready for what?” Zayn asked warily.

“Going out,” said Louis, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Having a drink or two. Or ten. Getting it.” He started grinding obscenely against Liam, to Liam’s clear annoyance.

“Louis,” he said in exasperation. “Louis, stop it. Stop. Stop it.”

Surprisingly, Louis complied, perhaps sensing that Liam was on the verge of simply punching him. “So, you in?”

“Oh, um, actually I’m not feeling all that great,” Zayn lied, trying to look as miserable as possible.

“Aww, sorry to hear that, mate,” Louis said blithely. “What about Harry?”

“I don’t think he’s up for it either,” Zayn replied, not even able to come up with the feeblest excuse.

But amazingly, Louis and Liam seemed to take his words at face value. “You lot haven’t got food poisoning too, have you?”

“No, just exhausted, really. Have fun, though.”

“Oh, we will. Won’t we, Liam?”

“Um,” said Liam, looking fairly daunted by the sudden prospect of a night out with just Louis. Zayn did feel a little sorry for him, but then reasoned that if any of them needed the opportunity to cut loose a bit, it was Liam.

Just as Zayn shut the door Harry emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and clad only in a towel, skin still glistening wet. It was, objectively speaking, a truly glorious sight.

“Who was that?” Harry asked. Zayn explained absentmindedly, watching as he dried his damp curls with another towel.

“I told them to fuck off, though.”

“Why?” Harry frowned in confusion for a moment, until he saw the small plastic bag Zayn produced.

“Want to?” Zayn asked casually, as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. Really it didn’t; he had certainly smoked before and would again, but he would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t been looking forward to this.

That, and he couldn’t really imagine Harry being anything other than instantly agreeable, which turned out to be true.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “Um, I might put some pants on first, though.”

Zayn shrugged; it didn’t seem worth mentioning that if thing went his way, Harry’s pants would be coming off again soon enough. Instead he set to work packing a bowl while Harry got dressed.

There was a weird sort of nervous expectance in the room when Harry reemerged from the bathroom clad in skintight briefs and, naturally, nothing else. Zayn was suddenly, painfully aware of their mutual sobriety but had decided it best not to add liquor into the mix, not the first time anyway.

“C’mere,” he said, and Harry flopped down next to him on the bed, surveying the equipment laid out between them.

“Won’t it like, set off the smoke alarm or something?”

Zayn simply gestured to the wall-mounted alarm, which was covered with a standard-issue hotel shower cap.

“Genius,” said Harry, and then, in a too-late attempt to cover his wide-eyed innocence, “I mean, obviously.”

Grinning, Zayn grabbed his pipe to show Harry the mechanics of the bowl and the carb. “When you inhale just like, hold it in, yeah? Don’t exhale right away. So like, you’ve got to suck, but don’t swallow.”

“Oh, so now it’s _don’t_ swallow?” Harry replied, unable to resist.

“Fucker,” said Zayn. Without further ado he sparked up and demonstrated, toking long and deep. “Now you go,” he gasped, still holding the sweet, slightly sharp smoke in his lungs as he passed the bowl to Harry. He had received “the good shit,” as promised, and could already feel a familiar buzz at the edge of his senses when he exhaled.

He watched with some amusement as Harry tried to replicate his actions, stifling a snicker as he inhaled mightily while completely forgetting to cover the carb.

Harry fumbled for another moment or two, but eventually admitted defeat even though it clearly pained him to do so. “I don’t think I got any.”

“’s alright,” Zayn assured him. “Here.” He took the bowl back and tamped it down slightly with the corner of his lighter, explaining, “I’ll get it started, right? Then when I pass it to you, just like, keep your finger here, and let go when you inhale. Yeah?”

“Got it.”

“That’s how I used to do it with my girlfriends, you know,” Zayn added mischievously.

Harry rewarded his cheekiness by glaring emphatically and giving him the finger, but ultimately complied.

“Alright, there?” Zayn asked after a moment.

There was no reply from Harry, whose cheeks began to flush as he continued to hold his breath, but when he finally exhaled only a few small wisps of smoke emerged.

“I think I feel something,” he insisted nevertheless.

“Yeah?” Zayn asked, doubtful.

Harry paused, mulling it over. “No,” he said at last, handing the piece back over to Zayn. But somewhere between the two of them the handoff got fumbled and the bowl tipped, scattering singed residue across the blanket.

“Fuck,” said Harry. “Sorry.”

Zayn simply giggled, definitely feeling the effects now, and repacked the bowl. “Fuck it,” he said, everything in the room seeming hazy yet simultaneously crystal-clear, “you just stay there, okay?”

“Okay,” said Harry, and Zayn relished the fact that for once he seemed totally out of his element.

He lit up and toked once for himself, even though it was definitely strong enough that another hit wasn’t strictly necessary. The next time he inhaled and then turned to Harry, beckoning him closer. Harry instinctively leaned in, his pink, slightly parted lips seeming to radiate heat, his unmistakable scent filling Zayn’s nostrils, and it was only through a massive force of will that Zayn was able to refrain from simply kissing him right then. Instead he exhaled, sending the smoke into Harry’s open mouth, and that was good too, intimate in a wholly novel way.

This time when Harry breathed out a billowing white cloud emerged, but it wasn’t enough to fully obscure his euphoric expression.

“Holy shit,” he said.

Zayn grinned; no longer able to contain himself, he pressed Harry backwards onto the bed and kissed him forcefully. Harry was more than willing to reciprocate, his firm, sure hands eagerly exploring Zayn’s torso and venturing experimentally lower so that it was Zayn who finally, reluctantly pulled back.

“Hang on,” he said, much to Harry’s displeasure. “You’re not nearly stoned enough yet.”

The silence in the now-slightly-smoky room seemed suddenly oppressive, and Zayn realized he had forgotten about the music. Disentangling himself, he fumbled first for his iPod and speakers and then for the pipe, which remained miraculously intact. Harry sat up too after pouting for another moment, and they continued shotgunning until the bowl was cashed—no point, Zayn reasoned, in messing with a system that worked—as the earnest strains of _Abbey Road_ reverberated through their bones.

Zayn had selected the album because it was both conventional and unexpected, a peerless classic in its own right but not as much a part of the stoner rock canon as Hendrix or the Dead. It was one of Zayn’s favorites to play when he smoked, though; the emotional strain of the vocals seemed so much rawer, the aching sexual need laid barer, the tense desperation of a group on the cusp of collapse more palpable.

 _He say, one and one and one is three,_ John Lennon drawled on the opening track, one of Zayn’s favorite lyrics on the album. Like most of the song, he had only a vague idea of what it might mean, but something about it resonated deep in his ribcage.

Plus—and most importantly, really—he knew Harry loved the album too. A quick glance over told Zayn he had made the correct call; the way Harry’s eyes lit up said it all.

“Good, yeah?” Zayn asked, just to hear him say it.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Harry said. “Can I just like, stay stoned forever?”

Instead of answering, Zayn began to giggle uncontrollably, a sure sign that the high was in full effect.

This set Harry off in turn, although he managed to compose himself fairly quickly. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice sounding even lustier and more drenched with sexual energy than usual. Zayn could feel himself getting hard, but didn’t want Harry to know it was that easy.

“Your face, man,” he said between snickers. “You’re like…” Zayn demonstrated his best stoned-as-fuck expression, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, but wasn’t actually sure whether he was taking the piss or actually just stoned as fuck.

Harry let out a short, exhaling laugh, lifting an arm to lazily punch Zayn on the shoulder. “Fuck you, man,” he said, sprawling back on the bed and looking utterly blissful.

Zayn allowed himself to stare for a moment, mentally cataloguing Harry’s smooth, toned stomach and chest, moving up to the smattering of still-unfamiliar tattoos scattered haphazardly across his shoulder and upper arm, to those dark, astonishing curls, and finally lingering on his starry-eyed expression; Zayn didn’t think Harry could get any happier.

That is, until the last bright strains of “Octopus’ Garden” faded and a new set of languid, bluesy guitar riffs took their place.

“Oh my god,” said Harry, the words emerging like some ecstatic truth from deep within him. “This,” he continued, “this is the greatest song ever recorded.”

“Yeah,” Zayn said, eager to agree even though he wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about the tune. “I—”

“Shh,” Harry cut him off, eyes closed for maximum aural appreciation. “Just listen.”

Zayn complied, turning his full attention to the music as the guitar and grooving bass line were joined by raw, plaintive vocals, again courtesy of Lennon.

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad_

“Holy shit,” said Zayn.

“Told you,” Harry replied, momentarily cracking an eye open to gauge Zayn’s reaction. “Fucking brilliant.”

As the song continued, Zayn found himself increasingly on board with Harry’s “greatest song ever” declaration; musically and lyrically it was simple enough, but the whole just oozed raw, unabashed emotional need and unrelenting sexuality.

When the chorus harmonies dropped out and the opening riff came back around again, the hollow thirst that had been burning deep in Zayn’s stomach all along suddenly became unbearable. And Harry was still just lying there, appearing totally content and oblivious.

So Zayn simply had no choice but to lean down and kiss him, decisively, hungrily, and at length. His hands found the gently sloping curves of Harry’s shoulders and pinned them to the mattress; Harry tensed in surprise for the briefest moment but then melted into it, lips softening and then pressing back in a perfect give and take, hands lifted from behind his head to caress Zayn’s sharp, lightly stubbled jawline and draw him down, down, down into the blissful, infinite kiss.

Well, “infinite” was an exaggeration. Because the kissing was nice but it wasn’t enough for long; it never was. Zayn disengaged just long enough to hastily remove his shirt and then brought his legs up onto the bed to straddle blissed-out, yearning Harry.  He stayed erect for a moment, admiring the long view, while Harry simply grinned his effortless, utterly disarming grin.

“Fuck. You don’t even know, do you?” Zayn said breathlessly, already more turned on than he had been in a long time.

“Know what?” asked Harry, still smiling.

“How fucking gorgeous you are.”

A hot, red flush rose to Harry’s cheeks, his obscenely expressive hazel eyes flashing with hunger. He began to push himself up but Zayn leaned back down, kissing him firmly and trapping him against the bed again. He traced his tongue slowly, lightly along the contour of Harry’s jaw, over his Adam’s apple, and then into the hollow of his neck as he reached down and drew away the elastic band of Harry’s briefs.

Harry inhaled sharply at the last movement, and then again as Zayn wrapped a hand around his cock. Zayn could tell he was close already, and although he did enjoy teasing Harry he didn’t want to risk anything this time. So he let go and resumed where he had left off, lavishing kisses all the way down Harry’s torso, paying special attention when he reached the sharp curves of his hips, drawing a smooth line with his finger just below the bone and then retracing it with his tongue, eliciting another intake of breath followed by a forceful exhale.

Zayn looked up and was pleased to note that Harry looked utterly destroyed already, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, one hand covering his face. Zayn’s dick twinged painfully at the sight, but he reminded himself that there was no need to rush things, grasping the waist of Harry’s briefs with his teeth and dragging them slowly down.

“Fuck,” Harry gasped, “Zayn.”

Zayn didn’t say anything; he wanted to make Harry ask for it, as he so rarely had to do. So he waited, even though every nerve ending in his body seemed to be buzzing, even though all of his instincts were screaming at him to touch Harry, to kiss him, to fuck him utterly senseless.  It was agonizing, but as it turned out, so, so worth it.

“I. Want. You,” Harry finally managed to choke out, lifting his head to meet Zayn’s gaze with a shamelessly desperate gleam in his eye. “I want you. To fuck me.”

“Jesus, Harry,” Zayn said, breathless himself, seeing no point in holding anything back now. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He leaned forward and kissed Harry sloppily as he reached for the lube and condoms on the bedside table, then kicked off his own shorts and underpants. He squeezed a generous amount of clear, viscous stuff onto his fingers and circled Harry’s rim a few times before plunging a finger roughly inside, producing a near-silent gasp from Harry. Zayn couldn’t help but grin as he added a second finger, then a third, curving them expertly to make Harry writhe and clench his own hands in reflexive pleasure, burying them in his gloriously mussed hair.

It was almost too much for Zayn to handle, so he removed his fingers and groped for a condom, struggling to extract it from the package and then to put it on, preferring to blame his struggles on the weed rather than some overwhelming, blinding desire for Harry, despite all signs pointing to that as the most likely cause. Because he had definitely had sex when he was way more fucked up, but he had never had so much trouble with something that simple.

Harry seemed to be growing impatient too, roughly grabbing his own cock in an attempt to get some degree of relief. Zayn, succeeding at last with the condom, stood up and pulled Harry down to the edge of the bed, selecting a favorite best-of-both-worlds position that would give him good leverage and provide the best view. He waited for Harry to situate himself and bring his long, lanky legs up over Zayn’s shoulders and then thrust into him decisively, fully, knowing what Harry could handle but also what he needed. His efforts were rewarded with a hoarse, wordless cry of joy.

Zayn ever so lightly brushed the tip of Harry’s dick, eliciting another squeal of delight, before grasping it firmly and beginning to pump in rhythm with the movement of his own hips.

“God, Zayn,” Harry rasped. “I…”

He was unable to even finish the sentence but Zayn didn’t need him to, could feel that Harry was right on the edge, and—judging by the unintelligible sounds he was making—that Zayn was hitting the right spot. He fucked Harry with renewed force, but remarkably it still wasn’t quite enough for the curly-haired fiend beneath him.

“Come on,” said Harry. “Fuck. Harder. Fuck. Me. Harder.”

The husky depth, the pure want in Harry’s voice shot straight to Zayn’s core. He titled his head back and let out a strangled cry as he came with a final flurry of desperate, erratic thrusts. Harry came almost simultaneously, inhaling deeply and arcing his back, his hips, his whole body up toward Zayn.

There was a moment just afterwards when everything seemed suspended, when it seemed like the two of them could just go on forever in an endless instant of unadulterated ecstasy until the building collapsed, or the world exploded, or the sun finally just burned out, and even then maybe somehow they’d still be there, cocooned in the feeling of perfect pleasure.

But obviously _that_ couldn’t last. Zayn, thoroughly spent for the time being, pulled out and collapsed on the bed. Harry turned on his side to face him, rosy-cheeked and smiling guilelessly.

“You’re incredible,” said Zayn impulsively, not even batting an eye at what he would normally consider an overly sappy sentiment. But just because it was sappy didn’t mean it wasn’t true, and anyway this was Harry: sometimes you had no choice but to resort to superlatives.

“You’re alright,” Harry replied, leaning over to give Zayn a cheeky peck right on the tip of his nose.

“Just alright, is it?”

Harry shrugged, confirming his answer with a silent nod.

“Right, well you just remember that next time.”

“Ha,” said Harry. “As if you could hold a grudge against me.”

It was Zayn’s turn to shrug; no point in denying that.

“Now,” Harry continued, sitting up to retrieve the fallen pipe from the floor, “show me how to do this again.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is really short but it took an insanely long time because I'm really slow at writing smut. So hopefully it was OK. Like the header note mentions I'm not condoning or recommending recreational marijuana use so please don't do that, unless it's legal where you live in which case knock yourself out but responsibly. I do absolutely, 100% condone and recommend The Beatles' _Abbey Road_ ; it's pretty easy to figure out the tracks mentioned here but just in case the first one is "Come Together" and the second is "I Want You (She's So Heavy)". Umm yeah I think that's all byeeeeee.


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